Author: Tom Darby

When the stakes were high, the Fernley Vaqueros didn’t flinch. In a showdown dripping with payback, they settled an old score with North Valleys on Friday, galloping away with a 61-50 victory. Back in January, the Panthers got the better of them in a tight 51-48 affair, but this time, Fernley made sure there was no such luck.

North Valleys had a fighter in Ivy Williams, and she didn’t go down easy. The sharpshooting Panther nearly notched a double-double, pouring in 22 points and pulling down nine rebounds.

That’s nothing new for Williams—she’s been a menace on defense, tallying at least two steals in her last 21 games. Annika Hester also made her presence known, adding 14 points and seven boards.

But when the dust settled, Fernley stood tall. They’ve been on a hot streak, winning five of their last six, bringing their record to a solid 21-6. North Valleys, meanwhile, takes a step back at 22-5, their season now at a standstill.

Fernley didn’t have long to savor the win, though—the next day, they ran headfirst into a Churchill County buzzsaw, suffering a lopsided 63-31 loss. As for North Valleys, the season clock has struck midnight, leaving them with nothing to do but tip their hats and wait for next year.

Since the dawn of 2020, the Fernley Vaqueros have treated Churchill County like a worn-out deck of cards, dealing them defeat after defeat, an 8-2 record. Saturday, they saddled up once more, looking to reinforce that dominance.

There’s no time for sore muscles, either—having just wrapped up a game, the Vaqueros will be back in the fray at noon, taking on the Churchill County Greenwave in what promises to be a shootout fit for the record books. Fernley comes into this bout riding high on a hard-earned playoff victory, besting North Valleys 61-50 on Friday.

On the other hand, Churchill County has been on a stampede. They strutted into their Friday contest with ten straight wins and waltzed out with eleven, narrowly fending off the Buckaroos in a 61-55 dust-up. That puts their season tally at 22-6, while Fernley stands close behind at 21-6.

But numbers don’t tell the whole tale. Last Friday, Churchill County put Fernley through the wringer, handing them a stinging 51-29 loss. Now, the Vaqueros are looking for payback.

Will they rewrite the story, or will Churchill County keep the pen in their own hands? By the time the dust settles, we’ll have our answer.

Virginia City had seen its share of law officers, but the latest sheriff, a stout and square-jawed fellow named Wes Halford, had riled the town like a kicked anthill. He made sweeping changes from the moment he pinned the star to his chest, aiming to tame a town that had long tolerated its rowdy charm.

Banning children from saloons outright was his first move, a change that left families grumbling. Then, in a bold display, he marched into the Bucket of Blood Saloon and unbuckled Cowboy Carl’s six shooters, relics of another age, leaving the man red-faced and sputtering.

“Those guns ain’t been loaded in thirty years, Sheriff!” Carl bellowed, chasing Halford out onto the boardwalk.

“They’re still guns,” Halford snapped, tossing the holsters over his shoulder. “Rules are rules, Carl.”

Carl glared at the sheriff’s back. “Rules, my foot. This town wasn’t built on rules—it was built on grit!”

Inside the Crystal Saloon, where many townsfolk had gathered to watch the spectacle, Hank Weaver, the barkeep, leaned on the counter and smirked. “You see that? Halford’s tighter than a preacher on Sunday.”

“I’ll say,” muttered Sarah Clemens, the widow who owned the bakery two doors down. “He told me my pies were an eyesore on my windowsill! Can you believe that? An eyesore!”

“I don’t mind it,” chimed in a young tourist sipping a beer. “Keeps things orderly.”

“Orderly? This ain’t Boston,” said Old Bill, a grizzled prospector leaning against the bar. “Virginia City’s supposed to have a little dust and trouble. That’s how it’s been since ’49.”

Hank poured another drink for Jebediah Slater, who sat silently at the far end of the bar. The old cowboy, his face as worn as an old saddlebag, was nursing a whiskey and beer.

He didn’t say much, but his presence carried weight. Folks had heard the stories—Jeb used to be a gunslinger, a man quick with his hands and deadly with a six-shooter.

“Halford’s gonna learn soon enough,” Hank muttered, glancing toward Jeb.

The crash of breaking glass snapped everyone’s attention back to Jeb. Another bottle had been tossed toward the old woodstove by the stairs, shattering into a thousand pieces. Hank winced but didn’t say a word.

Moments later, the saloon doors swung open, and in strode Sheriff Halford, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. He stopped short at the sight of the pile of broken glass near the stove.

“What in the hell is this?” Halford barked, his voice booming.

Hank shrugged, polishing a glass. “Just Jeb. Letting off steam.”

Halford marched down the bar until he stood towering over Jeb. “You’re gonna knock that off, old man.”

Jeb didn’t look up. Instead, he finished his whiskey and lobbed it toward the stove.

Before it could reach its mark, Halford’s Colt roared, shattering the bottle.

The saloon fell silent as the sheriff holstered his gun. “I said knock it off.”

Jeb turned his head slowly, his gray eyes locking onto Halford’s. He slid off the barstool, his boots hitting the floor with a thud. “Don’t go nowhere. I’ll be back at first light.”

The man strode past Halford, his spurs jingling softly.

Hank let go a low whistle as the doors swung shut behind him. “Well, now you’ve done it, Sheriff.”

“Done what?” Halford snapped, though his voice betrayed a flicker of unease.

“He’s gone to his place to fetch his guns,” Old Bill muttered.

Another man, sitting near the window, added, “Yeah, and he’s killed before. Three men in one night. They say he only pulls when he means to kill.”

Halford straightened, his face pale. “I’ll be ready.”

The saloon murmured with doubt, and someone whispered, “You’d better be.”

By sunrise, the town was alive with tension. People lined the windows of the saloons and shops along C Street, waiting for the inevitable showdown. Tourists, business owners, and residents whispered to one another, placing bets and sharing rumors.

“You think Halford’s got a chance?” Sarah asked Hank as he set up chairs on the boardwalk.

Hank snorted. “Against Jeb? Not a prayer. But maybe he’ll learn a lesson about poking the wrong bear.”

Up the street, Carl leaned against a post, chewing on a piece of straw.

“That sheriff’s green as grass,” he muttered to a young couple watching from a hotel balcony. “You don’t challenge a man like Jeb unless you’re ready to meet your maker.”

“I heard Jeb used to ride with Wild Bill,” said the young woman.

“Wild Bill? Shoot, Jeb’s older than Wild Bill ever got,” Carl replied with a chuckle.

As the sun crept higher, hooves echoed down the street. Jeb rode in slow, his hat pulled low, a black powder pistol strapped to his left hip. He dismounted near the Crystal Saloon, slapped his horse’s flank, and turned to face the sheriff, who stood waiting in the middle of the street.

“Here we go,” muttered Hank from the saloon doorway.

Halford’s hand hovered near his holster, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Whenever you’re ready, old man.”

Jeb said nothing, his hand hanging loose by his side.

“I said, whenever you’re ready,” Halford repeated, his voice cracking.

The crowd held its breath.

Jeb finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly. “You sure you want this, Sheriff?”

Halford nodded but didn’t move.

Jeb took a step forward without warning, closing the distance between them. Halford tensed, his fingers twitching. But Jeb stopped, standing inches from the younger man, and looked him square in the eye.

“Not today, Sheriff,” Jeb said quietly. “Not today.”

He turned and walked past, pushing through the saloon doors. Moments later, the sound of breaking glass resumed.

Halford stood frozen for a moment before walking back to his office. By the next day, he was patrolling without his pistols, a quieter, more thoughtful man.

But he still never gave Cowboy Carl his rig back.

It appears the gambling gods are smiling once more upon Nevada’s casino industry, which managed to pull itself up by its bootstraps after two months of disappointing results. December saw the state’s casinos hauling in a respectable $1.46 billion, a two percent increase over the same month last year.

It may not be the kind of jump that would make a man break out in applause, but it’s enough to get the wheels turning again.

However, before anyone starts handing out cigars and backslaps, it’s worth noting that Nevada’s gaming revenue is still trailing for the fiscal year, down nearly two percent compared to the same time in 2023.

This news comes courtesy of the Nevada Gaming Control Board, who are always quick to point out the fine print.

Clark County—home to the sparkling jewel of Sin City, Las Vegas—did its part to help turn the tide, though the Strip itself wasn’t exactly leading the charge. Suffering a four percent decline in November, the county rallied with a 1.5 percent increase in December, with revenues hitting $1.29 billion. But let’s not get too excited: the Strip saw a slight dip of 2.7 percent, pulling in $881.3 million.

The culprit for the drop? Table games, especially high-stakes baccarat. Those high-rollers seem to have taken a little extra from the casinos, with revenue from that game slipping nearly ten percent.

But all wasn’t lost. Slot machines were a bright spot, bumping higher by 11.1 percent to $495.4 million.

Meanwhile, the parts of Clark County that aren’t the Strip quietly enjoyed a little boom. Downtown Las Vegas saw a nice uptick of 8.4 percent, North Las Vegas grew by 1.6 percent, and Laughlin saw a 9.4 percent boost. The Boulder Strip was the real standout—surging 29.7 percent, pulling down $87.8 million.

Reno reported a solid 19.9 percent jump with $65.8 million in revenue. South Lake Tahoe wasn’t far behind, up 20.3 percent to $19.4 million, while Lake Tahoe saw a dip, down 3.6 percent to $2 million.

So, while the road’s been a little rocky, it seems that the Silver State is managing to weather the storm, with a few bright spots scattered across the landscape. Whether enough to keep the casinos from betting on a royal flush remains to be seen, but as they say in these parts, “The house always wins.”

Maybe not today, but give it time

.

In Carson City, the drama unfolds like a tale straight out of the darkest pages of life’s ledger. The former public defender, Adam Woodrum, a man once entrusted with upholding the scales of justice, now finds himself caught in a maelstrom of ignominy.

At the tender age of 46, Mr. Woodrum stands accused of the most grievous crime, one that chills the bones and roils the soul. Court documents allege that between the years of August 2023 and August 2024, he engaged in acts of lewdness with a child not yet blossomed into the age of sixteen—a horrendous violation of innocence, by laying hands upon the vulnerable child, whose tender years numbered but fourteen or fifteen.

Having been clapped into the Carson City jail on January 22, Mr. Woodrum now wanders free, pending the solemn deliberations of the court. Due to the complexities of legal entanglements, a deputy district attorney from Douglas County shall prosecute this matter, ensuring impartiality in the face of such grim accusations.

Formerly, Woodrum held the esteemed office of deputy attorney general, a fact unearthed by the vigilant sentinels at Transparent Nevada. Such a fall from grace is rare, yet here we stand, witnesses to a morality play of tragic proportions.

Woodrum shall return to the Carson City Justice Court on March 7, where the scales of justice will weigh heavily upon him. Should the gavel fall against him, the erstwhile defender may find himself staring down the unforgiving barrel of a prison sentence extending up to two decades.

A Valentine’s Day Arrest

Mr. Matthew Alexander Mann, aged 35 and possibly not much of a gentleman, found himself clapped in irons on the evening of February 14, which some might call poetic justice for a fellow whose notions of courtship lean more toward villainy than affection.

The trouble began on February 10, when deputies of Carson City went to a domestic disturbance on N. Curry Street. The complainant, a woman who had already availed herself of a protection order against Mann–suggesting she was well acquainted with his character–reported that he had waylaid her near her vehicle, attempting—without success—to abscond with her purse.

Mann, it seems, possesses neither scruples nor skill in larceny, as surveillance footage bore out the victim’s account in full. The law, ever patient but not forgetful, issued a warrant for his arrest on charges of attempted robbery, false imprisonment, domestic battery, and violating the protection order—offenses that, even to the most charitable observer, paint him as a singularly unpleasant suitor.

Not content with physical misdeeds, Mann elevated his folly to fresh heights on February 13 by phoning his former flame, wherein he allegedly threatened to shoot her for her impudence in reporting his conduct. He also inquired, as if discussing the weather, whether she intended to testify against him in court—a question with a foregone conclusion, given that law-abiding citizens tend to prefer their testimony unaccompanied by the prospect of gunfire.

Detectives, displaying considerably more competence than their quarry, discovered Mann lurking in a Reno residence the following day and took him into custody without apparent incident. He now resides at the Carson City Sheriff’s Office Jail, contemplating his choices from behind bars, with a $100,000 bond between him and his next poor decision.

In a turn of events as predictable as a rooster’s crow at dawn, a gaggle of attorneys general from 14 states, including Nevada’s Aaron Ford, have taken offense at the notion that billionaire Elon Musk and his Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) might try to make the government more efficient.

The horror.

These esteemed guardians of bureaucracy have filed a lawsuit, hollering that Musk is exercising “virtually unchecked power” by daring to peek behind the curtain of federal agencies and—heaven forbid—root out waste, fraud, and abuse. The notion of a government official who isn’t asleep at his desk has sent them into a tizzy.

Their lawsuit, filed in Washington, D.C., insists that only a Senate-confirmed official can do the work Musk is doing. As every good Washington insider knows, nothing improves efficiency like adding a few hundred politicians to the process. The attorneys general are demanding that Musk stop giving orders outside of DOGE, identify how he’s been using “unauthorized” data, and essentially stop embarrassing the government by pointing out how much taxpayer money is vanishing into the ether.

Michigan Attorney General Dana Nessel took to the internet to declare their righteous indignation, flanked by colleagues from Arizona and New Mexico. Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford, not one to miss a good bout of pearl-clutching, fumed, “Musk’s actions are illegal, and we will stop them.”

That’s right, folks—after decades of government waste, someone is finally taking action, and the first response is to sue.

Musk, for his part, appears to be having the time of his life, storming through federal agencies, poking into budgets, and suggesting that some departments—like that drawer full of expired ketchup packets in your fridge—might best be thrown out entirely. The tech mogul even went so far as to suggest “deleting entire agencies,” which sent bureaucrats into a panic not seen since the invention of the time clock.

Democratic attorneys general warn that Musk’s meddling might disrupt the delicate art of government waste, particularly at agencies like the IRS and CDC—because nothing says efficiency like tax forms that require a degree in hieroglyphics and public health guidance that changes more often than a teenager’s mood.

New Mexico Attorney General Raúl Torrez decried Musk’s actions, saying Trump is showing “weakness” by using a businessman rather than just pushing reforms through Congress. Yes, because waiting on Congress to fix inefficiency is like expecting a turtle to win a footrace against a racehorse.

Whether Musk’s crusade will succeed or if the government will wrangle him into submission remains to be seen. Washington hasn’t been this ruffled since someone suggested reading the Constitution before passing a new law.

The Lyon County Sheriff’s Office (LCSO) Sex Offender Task Force got their hands dirty on February 6 when they began sniffing around a potential troublemaker—a non-compliant Tier 3 sex offender rumored to be hanging his hat somewhere in Fernley. It didn’t take long for the trail to lead them to one Rogelio Barocio, a 39-year-old Fernley resident.

Fast forward to February 11, and Sheriff’s deputies, with all the precision and speed of a hound on a scent, tracked Barocio down, slapped the cuffs on him, and carted him off to the Lyon County Jail. His crime? A felony violation for avoiding his sex offender registration requirements.

Now, the Sheriff’s office is all about keeping things tidy in Lyon County, especially over sex offenders. The task force is making it their mission to ensure all offenders follow the rules.

They do their rounds—regular compliance checks—so you can sleep a little easier at night, knowing the sheriff’s got your back. But if someone decides to skip out on their legal obligations, the task force has made it their business to hold them accountable.

The Sheriff’s Office is calling on the good folks of Lyon County to do their part, too. If something smells fishy or you suspect a neighbor’s not playing by the rules, they want to hear about it at SOTF@lyon-county.org.

A Good Thing for Nevada

As part of the Trump administration’s ongoing efforts to put America’s energy needs first, federal officials are looking into redrawing the boundaries of certain national monuments—especially those established by previous administrations. It aligns with the February 18 order from Interior Secretary Doug Burgum to submit plans.

Now, some are already wringing their hands about this. Conservation groups are naturally concerned that the Trump administration might shrink or eliminate monuments like Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante in Utah.

They’ve been vocal about how these places should be left untouched. But let’s get something straight–the people who live in these areas should have the final say—not distant bureaucrats or environmentalists who don’t have to deal with the real-world implications of these decisions.

These areas aren’t just scenic vistas; they’re on valuable natural resources like coal and uranium. These resources could be key to America’s future energy independence. Shrinking some of these protected areas is sensible—it’s also essential for economic development and the future of communities that rely on these industries.

Trump’s first term saw a reduction in the size of these monuments, and it’s clear that the current administration is looking to continue that effort. It’s not about disrespecting the land but recognizing economic growth and energy independence. You can’t simply ignore that these lands contain precious resources that can power our nation and support countless jobs.

Despite the clamor from environmental groups, remember that these monuments, while significant, have also sparked conflict with residents who don’t want their livelihoods restricted. As the legal challenges to Trump’s previous reductions continue to simmer, one thing is clear: the people who live in these areas have a right to decide what happens to their land. It’s time we start listening to those voices instead of letting a select few in Washington dictate what’s best for all of us.

In Nevada, where development and clean energy projects often stall due to the creation of new monuments, it’s time to consider whether these designations benefit the people who call these places home. It’s not about protections; it’s about striking the right balance between preserving the land and local economies having the space to thrive.

There are few pleasures in life so fleeting as the sight of a gas station marquee promising relief from highway robbery—only to pull up to the pump and find that promise as empty as the tank that led you there.

But fear not, weary traveler, for Assembly Bill 29 seeks to end the grand deception.

“That is one of the additions that would come through in this bill,” says Bill Striejewski, who holds the high-sounding title Measurement Standards Administration Director with Nevada’s Department of Agriculture. “[It] would be to specify that street signage would show the higher price or highest price or both prices.”

In other words, if a gas station is going to advertise its wares, it had better tell the whole truth, not just the part that gets you to turn off the road. The bill would also untangle some legal cobwebs in Nevada’s fuel regulations, which haven’t seen dusting since 1951—a year when gasoline was cheap, cars were steel, and no one had yet imagined the modern swindle of electronic price signs and card surcharges.

The current laws, written when gas stations were less concerned with chicanery, fail to address many 21st-century innovations, including LED pricing signs, the ethanol content of fuel, and the now ubiquitous practice of charging more for credit card transactions. Under AB 29, any gas station that chooses to display its prices must list the highest price per gallon, ensuring that drivers aren’t bamboozled by the dream of discount fuel that vanishes upon arrival. The bill also insists that pumps properly label fuel grades, disclose the presence of ethanol, and bear the Nevada Department of Agriculture’s seal of approval, certifying that a gallon is indeed a gallon, not three quarts and a wink and a smile.

Some stations list all their prices honestly already, and Striejewski applauds their virtue. But, for those who prefer to let the fine print do the talking, AB 29 aims to correct their habits.

The bill recently received a hearing before the Assembly Natural Resources Committee. And while no one dared to oppose it outright, support came from the Retail Association and the Energy and Convenience Association of Nevada—groups that find clarity a refreshing novelty.